


Action This Day

by rogerina (krolium)



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: (for now) - Freeform, Crack Treated Seriously, Endgame Ship Undecided - Freeform, Hot Space Era, Humor, Magical Realism, Multi, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-09-14 02:17:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16904196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krolium/pseuds/rogerina
Summary: When Roger wishes he’d never joined Queen, he finds himself stuck in an alternate reality where he never met the band. The worst part? No one seems to realize there's anything wrong.No one, that is, except Roger himself.(prev. "Keep Yourself Alive")





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This idea’s been running through my mind for a couple weeks now and I couldn’t let it go, so…. Here we are, I guess. The first bit’s probably got the most sexual content you’re gonna see from this, and it’s still pretty light. This is my first try at RPF, so lemme know how it goes!
> 
> Also, the other band members don't feature too heavily in this first part, but they're definitely coming soon :D

_ "Oh, would you look who decided to show up!" Roger derided as Freddie strutted into the studio, clearly drunk and clearly having just spent some quality time with Mr. Prenter. _

_ Freddie set his usual bottle of beer on the upright piano in the corner, then turned to meet Roger's gaze. "There a problem, darling?" _

_ Roger had always been told he looked like a child when he frowned, but he shot Freddie his most wilting glare. "Why don't you ask Paul?" he snarled, completely aware he was aiming below the belt (so to speak). "He seems to know more about the band than we do, lately!" _

_ "Rog-" John tried to interject, but Roger didn't want to hear it. _

_ "Not a word from you! I can't believe you're on board with this. 'Body Language', really? Sounds like the sort of song they'd play at a strip joint!" _

_ "What's so wrong with that?" Freddie asked, unperturbed, turning on one of the atrocious new synthesizers in the room and starting to pluck out a few chords. _

_ Roger was about to tell Freddie exactly what was so wrong with that, and perhaps destroy that damned synth with his bare hands, but he felt a hand on his chest. _

_ "Nothing's wrong," Brian said, sounding diplomatic as usual. "It's just… are you sure that's our single?" _

_ "A single?" Roger cried. "It shouldn't be on the album at all! Honestly, Brian, I thought you were on my side!" _

_ "I'm not taking sides! There are no sides!" Brian sighed, weary, then continued, "We're all friends here, yeah? Let's just put this album together." _

_ Roger snorted derisively. "Oh, you mean the album featuring a hit single without any guitar? Does that not bother you?" _

_ "I get to play in 'Body Language'... a bit…." Brian trailed off for a moment, then added, "it's catchy!" like that made everything better. Sure, it was catchy, but it wasn't  _ Queen _. Brian would have to be mad to think so. _

_ Unsure, Brian looked to John, who shrugged and said, "It's a good song, Rog." _

_ "It's complete bollocks, Deaks! Freddie's moaning like a whore for half the song! God, am I the only one in this band with any sense?" _

_ "Perhaps," Freddie said with a nod, still plodding away on his stupid synthesizer, "the problem is that you have too much sense." _

_ "Too much- why, I-!" _

_ "I think!" Brian interrupted. "Freddie means that you should calm down a bit?" _

_ "Calm down?! When you all want to  _ release _ this garbage? I- that's it. I'm leaving. I'll come back when you get your heads on straight." On his way out, Roger cursed and uttered his final goodbye: _

_ "God, sometimes I wish I'd never met any of you!" _

* * *

Roger, not for the first time, wakes to a voice he doesn't recognize.

"Time to get ready for work, Doctor Taylor," his latest one-night stand murmurs into his ear, stroking his cheek with smooth, sultry fingers. As Roger's eyes flutter open, he takes in last night's conquest—a dark-haired beauty with ethereal black eyes to match her lacey bra, which has fallen carelessly off one shoulder.

Roger laughs.  _ "Doctor _ Taylor?" he echoes, one brow cocked in playful confusion. "Kinky." This wouldn't be his first time getting roped into some morning-after roleplay, and Roger definitely isn't opposed. He's never quite understood doctor kinks himself, but he'll play along for the prize at the end.

The woman rolls her eyes, sliding her fallen bra strap back over her shoulder before she quips, "yes, dentists are very sexy," she drones. "Come on Roger, you've got a root canal to perform in an hour."

He's about to play along, brain already piecing together what this nameless woman could possibly mean by "root canal" (that must be a euphemism for  _ something _ ), when she continues. "I know you hate your job, but I won't have you late for work again on my account." Her voice suddenly flat and without a hint of seduction, and it throws Roger for a loop.

"Again?" This doesn't sound like a roleplay anymore. More than anything, it reminds him of Dominique's scoldings, back before their marriage fell apart. The sense of familiarity in this stranger's voice is almost haunting, and Roger realizes with a shudder that he doesn't remember anything about last night. Even if he's completely hammered, Roger will usually recall at least hazy flashes of his escapades, but he doesn't even remember  _ meeting _ this woman. He doesn't even remember walking into the bar.

The last thing he remembers, actually, is his row with the band.

"Yes,  _ again _ ," the woman retorts, arms crossed. "This would be the third time this month. Honestly, I don't understand why you don't just quit that bloody dentistry already."

"Dentistry?" Roger repeats dumbly, and he starts to take in his surroundings. He assumed he was in a hotel room, but the room they're in looks like someone's home. Roger's reading glasses have been casually placed on the nightstand, and he  _ definitely _ wouldn't have taken out of the house last night. He puts them on, hoping to get a better view of the room, and that's when Roger spots the plaque on the wall. There, printed in bold calligraphy, are words Roger swore he would never read:

**Roger Taylor, DDS**

A shock of terror runs down Roger's veins. Something is very, very wrong.

"Oh, fuck," he says, still reeling as he shoots to his feet. As with most one-night stands, Roger expects to feel the telltale throbs of hangover pounding in his skull, but even those are unsettlingly absent. His eyes dart about as he walks across the room, trying to take in every strange detail of this new world around him. His bare feet pad over soft carpet that doesn't feel like that of a hotel room—it's too thick, too comfortable. Finally, he's made it to the bathroom, and he slams the door shut behind him as he turns on the lights.

He leans forward to clutch the smooth granite countertop, hands trembling. He can't even bring himself to look up at his own reflection. He's almost scared he won't recognize his own face. His words from earlier echo in his head.

_ Sometimes, I wish I'd never met any of you! _

Did the universe somehow grant his wish? Had some mysterious force heard his thoughtless request?

No. No, that's impossible. He's being unreasonable. Mysterious forces of nature may be Freddie's game, but Roger is a man of logic. There must be a practical explanation for all of this.

Then Roger notices the gold ring on his finger.

"Shit!" he yelps, before remembering the woman (his wife?) outside. Voice dialed down to a stage-whisper, he continues. "Shit, shit, shit, shit…."

He's married. He's married to some woman he doesn't even know.

At least she's hot, he reasons, but some voice in the back of his mind that sounds a bit like Brian chides him.  _ Now isn't the time, Roger _ .

The voice has a point. Roger needs to figure out what's happening to him. Bracing himself, he forces himself to look into the mirror.

He looks- well, pretty normal, actually. His hair is a little shorter in the back, and there are a few more white hairs than he's used to seeing (probably from the stress of dentistry, dear god). A quick glance at his throat doesn't reveal any hickeys to cover up, which is one less thing to worry about, so he rummages through the various shelves and cupboards until he finds his razor and some shaving cream in a drawer absent of his usual stage accessories. As he shaves, he notices the subtle differences in the lines of his face. Roger is in his thirties, so he's come to terms with the shallow wrinkles starting to etch their way into his skin. They're still small, and they're nothing a little makeup can't cover up, but they're prominent enough to notice when he's leaning toward the mirror like this. So far, he's had more smile lines than frown lines, something he's always noted with an inward sense of smugness. At least he's getting the good sort of wrinkles, if he must age at all.

Not anymore, he realizes, pausing mid-razor-swipe to trace a finger over the deeper scowl marks between his brows. They make him look more stern and serious, more like the doctor of dentistry he doesn't want to be.

If this is a prank, it's a damn good one. Perhaps it's a hallucination, or a bad trip. Freddie tends to dabble in heavier drugs, maybe he slipped Roger something. That has to be it. Any explanation would be better than accepting this as reality.

_ I wish I'd never met any of you! _

The words repeat themselves against his will, and Roger shakes his head, returning to his shaving. He'll think about this later. Right now, he has a root canal to perform on one very unfortunate patient.


	2. Chapter 2

There are few things Roger detests more than London traffic, and it's only worse when he has to glance over at his map every ten seconds. He's lucky there were some business cards in his pocket or he would never have known which dentistry to drive to—though he's not sure how to feel about being the sort of man who carries around business cards. Does the Roger in this universe hand out his card on a regular basis? Does he go to dinner parties with his wife and talk about how utterly fascinating it is to look inside people's mouths for a living? Again, Roger finds himself disgusted with this alternate reality he's trapped in, hoping to hell this acid or magic or whatever runs its course soon.

Finally, he's found the right building—he must have, since the sign in front of him reads 'Roger Taylor, DDS'. Stifling a groan, he pulls into the parking lot and adjusts the collar of his lab coat, peering up at himself in the rearview mirror before deciding he at least looks the part enough to go inside.

Perhaps it isn't too late to feign sickness, childish move though it is.

While he remembers it being August, it's late November here, and the autumn chill bites into his skin, giving rise to goosebumps below the sterile fabric of his lab coat. He barely restrains his teeth from chattering as he locks the car door with half-numb fingers and regrets not dressing for the weather as he walks across the parking lot. As the wind nips his nose red, he trudges up the concrete stairway, not even bothering with the frostbitten railing. His fingers struggle to find a grip on the door handle before he finally manages to get it open, feeling the heat wash over him in a sudden wave.

It's still early enough that it's dark outside, and the fluorescent lights in the dentistry are clinical and foreboding. Roger blinks the spots out of his eyes, shaking his head to regain his composure as he makes his way up to the front desk to greet whoever's there.

The secretary looks young enough to be in uni, with bobbed blonde hair and those poofy bangs that have been in fashion lately. When Roger waves at her, she immediately abandons her work to beam at him. "Morning, Doctor Taylor! Your patient's waiting in number four whenever you're ready!"

"Room number four, got it," Roger repeated to himself as he tries to inconspicuously find a door. "Thank you."

He doesn't bother learning her name. With any luck, he won't need to know it.

As he begins to walk away, though, the secretary pipes up again. "Oh, and Doctor Taylor?"

"Yes?"

Her dazzling smile doesn't waver as she exclaims, "I had a great time last weekend!"

Roger nearly chokes. Christ, he's cheated on his wife in this universe as well? Admittedly, she does seem like his type. Shaking off all his self-deprecating thoughts, he shoots the poor secretary a smirk and replies, "oh, really?"

The secretary is still unfazed. "Yes, that golf tournament was wonderful; thanks for inviting me! Your wife was lovely as well, and she makes wonderful biscuits."

It takes Roger a minute to realize that 'golf tournament' and 'making biscuits' aren't euphemisms for 'sex' (a running theme today, apparently), and when he does, Roger can't even bring himself to feel relieved that he didn't cheat on his wife with a girl half his age. Golf? Really? And here Roger thought this universe couldn't get any duller. At least adultery is  _ interesting _ .

"Oh," he replies, trying not to sound disappointed. "I'm glad you enjoyed it!" he adds, cringing inwardly as his voice jumps an octave.

He stands there for a moment, unsure of how to proceed, then sees a cartoon tooth decal on the wall and remembers why he came here in the first place. "Erm, room four, right?"

The secretary nods her head, blonde hair bouncing around her face. "Yes, room four! Your patient's waiting for you whenever you're ready." She gestures toward a door labeled 'examination rooms', and that sounds right to Roger, so he makes his way through and starts to search for room number four. Luckily, the rooms are marked in large block letters. Roger finds number four before he even notices that his hands are trembling.

"Alright, last chance to turn back," he mumbles to himself, finally grasping the doorknob with shaky fingers. He'll have to get that under control soon. Shaky hands will just make this surgery worse. Taking a deep, grounding breath, he thrusts open the door and marches into the room, confident as he can manage.

The patient's reclining chair faces away from the door, and the tray next to it is already loaded with familiar-looking torture devices. There's a manilla folder on the counter that seems like it would be nice to hide behind, so Roger strides over to pick it up, refusing to look at anything beyond the back of the patient's head peeking over the chair.

The patient, likely male, has short brown hair that almos t almost reminds him of- no, Roger can't get his hopes up. He'll only end up embarrassing himself.

Roger clears his throat as he saunters back toward the patient's seat. "Good morning, Mr. er-"

His eyes scan the folder for a name, and they don't take long to find purchase. There on the front are too-familiar words that send a rush of adrenaline straight down Roger's spine.  He adjusts his glasses, still not looking at the man in the seat (secretly hoping it's the familiar face he's half-expecting). Then, bracing himself, he reads the label aloud.

"John Deacon?"

It takes a minute for it to sink in. Honestly, Roger's a bit surprised he knows John well enough to identify him solely based on the top of his head, but he supposes that's just the sort of thing you pick up when you've been touring with someone for eleven years. "John?" he asks softly, as if this could all be an illusion and the man in the chair could actually be some mysterious serial killer.

Said man in the chair cranes his neck to look at Roger's flustered face. Indeed, John Deacon is sitting in the chair in front of him, dental bib over his chest, apparently awaiting a root canal. "Yes, that's me," he replies, like Roger needs the confirmation. He isn't smiling, but there's a familiar shine to his light eyes as John gazes at him.

Relief crashes over Roger like a tsunami. He's never been so happy to see a familiar face in his life. "Deacy, it's you!"

Roger waits for the recognition to spread across John's face, but all that comes is bemusement. "That's a bit casual for a doctor-patient relationship, don't you think?"

"Oh, very funny," Roger banters back with a grin. "Come on, Deaks, it's me!"

John raises one thick eyebrow and quips, "you mean the man who's going to be tearing my mouth apart?" He seems to sense this conversation is going to take a while, so he adjusts his posture, turning so he's sideways in his seat. One arm comes down to rest on the back of the chair, and he leans into it. 

"No, you prat!" Roger clenches his fists. As much as he loves John's deadpan humor, it's starting to set him off.

_ Sometimes, I wish I'd never met any of you! _

Roger squelches  _ that _ particular memory as quickly as it comes and adds, more calmly, "I'm your bandmate. We've known each other for years."

But John only shakes his head slowly, lips drawn into a moue. "I've never seen you in my life," he says in a patronizing tone usually reserved for children and small animals. "You're just my dentist for the day."

He's taking the piss. He must be. But there's no smug little Deacy-smirk, no delayed laughter or pithy punchline. John doesn't even recognize him.

"But you- no, this isn't right. I'm not a dentist," Roger blurts, which sounds inane even to his own ears.

John's lips finally quirk upward at that. His dark gaze flickers from Roger's eyes, down to his chest, then back up to his eyes. "The label on your lab coat begs to differ."

Roger's face burns with embarrassment. "I'm a drummer! And you're a bassist!"

"I haven't played bass since my first year of uni."

"We rehearsed yesterday!" Roger yells before he can stop himself, and John's grip on the back of his seat turns white-knuckled and tense, taken aback. "I got pissed because Freddie wanted to add some stupid club track to the bloody album, and you took his side! Even though the song is terrible!"  Frustrated, Roger throws the manilla folder back down on the counter and crosses his arms over his chest (even though Brian says that makes him look like a particularly ill-tempered five-year-old). He doesn't even care if he's being immature; either fate or magic or Freddie Mercury (or some combination of the three) are out to teach him a cruel lesson for saying something he didn't even mean. Because he absolutely didn't mean that. Anyone who knows Roger understands that he has a temper. And while, fine, he could do to reign it in a bit before he destroys a  _ seventh _ hotel television set, this is not fair payment. One outburst doesn't warrant a Dickensian redemption novel. It isn't even Christmastime.

Freddie's going to die for this, if Roger ever manages to get his hands on him.

"Are you mad?" John asks after a minute, stifling a nervous laugh.

It's a fair question, at this point, but Roger still scoffs at him. "I should hope not," he replies, but his voice comes out irritable like- well, like an ill-tempered five-year-old's. It's times like this Roger wishes he didn't sound so shrill.

John finally seems to realize Roger's desperation. He draws in a long-suffering breath that gives way to a long-suffering sigh, then cards a hand through his short, dark hair and asks, "Doctor Taylor, are you capable of performing a root canal or not?"

"Well I could try, but I never went to dental school-"

"Then you're staying far away from my mouth."

"That's probably for the best." Roger doesn't know what else to say, and awkward silence falls thick like fog across the room.

Finally, Roger works up the nerve to ask, "are you sure this isn't some terrible prank, and that Freddie and Brian aren't going to jump out of the closet and laugh at me?"

John's mouth tightens into an unimpressed seam that runs parallel to the lines of his forehead. "This room doesn't have a closet."

"You know what I mean!" Roger retorts, even though John probably has no idea what he means. If he hasn't seen Roger before, why would he know who Freddie and Brian are? Roger tries to look apologetic, but John's face stays stone-cold stoic, in perfect contrast to Roger's stone-cold  _ crazy _ (and now he's got his own band's song stuck in his head).

"Look, I don't know who you are, but have you considered that you might have amnesia or some similar illness?"

"It's not amnesia," Roger replies automatically, because he has far too many memories for an amnesiac. "It's like I've been dropped in another universe…." He trails off, staring right into John's expectant eyes, tinted muddy grey under the muted lighting. Somehow, this universe's John looks exactly like the one Roger remembers, down to the light curls he's just started teasing out in the front of his hair these past few months. It figures—John is probably the same in every reality, magical or otherwise. Either way, he looks much better off than Roger, more youthful than Roger seemed to appear in the mirror this morning.

"Another universe?" John prompts, bringing Roger's focus back to the topic at hand.

"Yes, exactly," he agrees, bobbing his head once, "and so far,  _ you're _ my only connection to the one I remember. You're the first familiar face I've seen since I woke up."

"Well," John says after a moment, brow furrowed. It looks like he wants to ask something else, but he just shakes his head again and says, "that's very interesting, but I'm taking time off work for this appointment, and I've got three children to take care of, so-"

"You're married to Veronica here as well?" Roger butts in. Three kids can't be a coincidence, right?

His hunch are confirmed when John scowls and asks, "how do you know Veronica?", a hint of suspicion creeping into his voice that sends Roger's heart fluttering.

Roger makes a placating gesture, though John's probably right to be skeptical. "Like I said, I know you! Let me guess, if you never met me, you're probably an electrical engineer?"

John nods, albeit with some reluctance.

"And you met Veronica at a disco, right? In 1971?" Roger asks, the memories flashing through his mind. "You had a shotgun wedding, I remember it. Freddie was wearing a feather boa."

"There were no feather boas at my wedding, but the rest of that is correct, yes." John doesn't even deny the shotgun wedding bit, which is more than even normal Deacy will admit aloud. "I really hope you're not stalking my family."

"I'm not!" Roger insists. "I don't even know where you live. Look, the Deacy I remember created his own amplifier to use on stage. You were planning on being an electrical engineer, but then the band made it big and you stuck with that instead. That sound like you?"

"Being part of a famous band? No, not really. I don't think I'd like being famous."

Of course John would say something like that, Roger thinks to himself as he slumps backward to lean on the counter behind him. "I know, but can you honestly say you prefer working- where do you work, anyway?"

"At the-" John begins, but he abruptly stops. Suddenly, he looks intensely nervous, eyes darting across the floor but refusing to focus.

Roger clears his throat. "John?"

"Er, it's none of your business," John replies, but he sounds too defensive, too hasty in his response. He scratches furiously at the back of his head, like his hair has spontaneously been replaced with itching powder.

"You don't remember?" Roger scoffs. "Is it that boring?"

"It's not that, it's just-" John cuts himself off, and awkward silence prevails for a moment. Roger can't bring himself to turn away. He's never seen John so flustered before. Irritable? Yes. Nervous? All the time. But John never gets flustered. His cheeks are tinged with pink, and he's started to fidget with his dental bib (Roger's surprised he hasn't taken it off yet). The glint in his dark eyes is somehow still smoldering, even if he's a touch embarrassed, and Roger is almost jealous.

"Fine, how about this?" John finally proposes. "Call in sick and reschedule my appointment, and you can come over to my place after I get off work."

Something still seems off, but Roger ignores it for now. John's uncomfortable enough as it is; he doesn't need some stranger prying into his personal life. For all he knows, Deacy's just been laid off and he doesn't  _ have _ a job to talk about. And speaking of prying, "Veronica probably wouldn't want a strange man with amnesia in her house," Roger points out.

John inhales on a hiss and replies, "you're right. We'll meet at a pub then. You can pick which one." He finally tears off his bib as he stands to steal Roger's pen off the counter. He pulls a crumpled receipt out of his pocket, flattens it out, and scrawls something down before handing it to Roger. "Here's my phone number. Don't call until five-thirty."

Roger nods. "Got it."

"Please don't make me regret this," John implores, giving him one final, thoughtful look before he exits, door swinging shut behind him.

* * *

The rest of Roger's day goes about as well as expected—the bubbly young secretary fusses over him from the moment he utters the word "sick" until he finally convinces her that he can drive himself home. Of course, Roger doesn't want to explain what had happened to his apparent wife, so instead he goes out for breakfast, buys some new clothes, then goes on a long drive to clear his mind. It's a relief when five-thirty comes and he can finally run to the nearest telephone box to call John Deacon, happy to hear a familiar voice even for the thirty seconds it takes to decide on a pub.

The pub they agreed upon is low-key and uncrowded. Roger predictably finds John in a secluded booth in the back, and he's already nursing a tall glass of beer.

"Deacy!" he calls as he walks up to the booth.

John turns to give him a short nod. "Doctor."

"Call me Roger!" Roger exclaims, shaking his hand eagerly as he sits down across from him. "How was work?"

"Well, that's a bit of a trick question" John says with a grimace, taking a slow sip from his beer. "I didn't actually go to work."

John's averted his eyes, so Roger can't quite sense the mood (is he joking?). Instead, he tilts his head and asks, "what?" before he flags down the waitress and orders his own drink.

Neither of them speak for a moment, Roger staring at John in anticipation, hoping that he can intimidate the other into explaining himself.

Finally, John concedes, "I think you might be right about this alternate universe business," and Roger's ears prick up. "I can't remember anything about where I work either. I only remember my home address because I was there this morning. My wife- er, Veronica told me to go to my appointment this morning, or I wouldn't have remembered that either."

That wasn't what Roger expected to hear (if John doesn't remember Queen, then shouldn't he be a part of this universe? Is that how that works? Roger will have to ask Brian, if he ever sees him again). "Well, what do you remember?" he prods, thinking that maybe John will remember bits and pieces of one reality or another.

John offers him a wry smile. "Do you want me to go through it all? My name is John Richard Deacon, and I was born August the nineteenth, 1951-"

"That'll do, thank you," Roger interrupts, rolling his eyes. John must be more comfortable around him than he does around most strangers, at least, if he's comfortable being a smart-arse to him this early on. "How much of your life do you remember?"

"About twenty years?" he surmises, taking another sip from his drink. "I remember growing up, and meeting Veronica, and studying electrical engineering in college for about a year until- poof!" John suddenly splays out his fingers in a mock explosion, eyes wide. "It's all gone. I know the names of my children, and I'll admit you do look a bit familiar, but that's about it."

Roger knows on some level that this must be scary for John, but he can't quite keep himself from smiling as he blurts back, "so you believe me then?"

John shrugs. "I haven't found a better explanation."

"So you'll help me find a way out of here?" The waitress comes back with Roger's drink, but he hardly even notices. He's too laser-focused on John's potential response. John Deacon is by far the most practical, down-to-earth member of Queen; if Roger can convince  _ him _ that there's something going on, he must be doing something right.

"That depends," Deacy replies with a simper, "are you willing to pick up the tab for tonight?"

"I don't see why not." It's not like Roger's poor, if he's a dentist here. The house he woke up in this morning was smaller than his normal mansion, but it was still quite big and luxurious.

Still, John takes a moment to reply, pretending to consider the offer. Finally, he says, "alright. I suppose I'll help you then."

Roger nearly leaps from his seat in joy to wrap his arms around John, but then he remembers that this John doesn't actually know who he is. Instead, he summons the waitress again so they can order supper, fingers thrumming on the warped wooden table all the while, and starts to explain everything at once. Words spill out of his mouth unwillingly, and he starts ranting about Munich and Freddie and the garbage album they're trying to make. After a while, when the waitress has long since arrived with their food, he notices that John's green eyes have glazed over. He finally pauses for a moment to say, "sorry, I'm babbling. What would you like to know?"

John furrows his brow. "So this rock band we're in- Queen, was it?"

Roger realizes with a hot flash of embarrassment that he didn't even explain the basics before he launched into his tirade. Face flushed, nods. "Yes."

"What an outrageous name," John replies, seemingly more to himself than to Roger, as he pops a chip into his mouth.

"Freddie's doing." Roger smiles as he recalls the day Freddie presented that particular idea to a younger, more reluctant Brian and Roger. "He drew us our own royal crest and everything—he studied design at Ealing."

"Man of many talents then," John postulates, and Roger nods again.

"Absolutely! He's a great artist, a brilliant pianist, and the best singer on the planet." His one-track mind stuck in the early seventies, he remembers hearing that powerhouse voice for the first time, remembers training Freddie to channel that raw power into something- well, something honestly beyond words.

"And he must have an ego about it, too," John continues, chewing on another chip with a contemplative look on his face.

Roger hummed to himself, before deciding, "not really." Freddie's stage presence may be flashy, but he's really quite reserved in private... unless he's been drinking, but then Roger has his moments too.

There's a pause, while John finishes chewing, then he asks, "why do you seem so angry at him, then?"

Finally, Roger sees what Deacy's insinuating, and he growls, "because Queen is not a disco group, and we aren't going to become one just because fucking Prenter thinks that's what will sell."

"Prenter?"

Roger isn't nearly drunk enough for this. He downs a large gulp of beer before he sneers, "don't make me talk about Prenter."

"Alright, is that all? Just an album?" John's face is drawn into that soft sort of frown that Roger finds half-endearing, half-terrifying. It usually means that John's about to try to get Roger to stop being an idiot, and Roger's not ready to stop being an idiot yet. Roger still hasn't forgiven Freddie, nor has he decided whether he'd prefer to kidnap one of Freddie's cats or lock himself in the cupboard again. The cupboard worked well last time, but it's since turned into and undesired running joke that Roger doesn't want to encourage, so he's leaning toward the former.

So, determined not to give in and do the right thing, Roger lets out a long sigh and whines, "Deacy, we're one of the most famous bands in the world! I don't want my name on an album with a garbage song like 'Body Language' on it where everyone can see! That's embarrassing!" He may sound like a pretentious twelve-year-old convincing his parents not to play old music on the radio, but Roger doesn't care. He just got stuck in an alternate universe where no one knows about Queen; he's earned the right to be a bit immature. Sulking, he finishes off his beer and flags down a passing waitress for a refill.

He's half-expecting John to offer some sympathy, which is stupid. John has little tolerance for Roger's petty brooding at the best of times.

Instead, John takes a swig from his own beer and levels Roger with a displeased glare. "Look, I don't know anything about this, so I can't really take any sides. I just think that perhaps, in light of recent events, it might be best to put that behind you for now. Assuming this is all real, don't you have more important things to focus on?"

It's hard to remember that John doesn't know him, when they're sitting and talking like old friends at a pub, and the reminder sends a jolt of terror through Roger. Here he's treating John like his best friend, when he's actually just prattling on about nothing of consequence to a stranger.

"You're right," he admits, feeling like a moron. Then, because he feels like he owes John a better explanation, he goes on. "You must know I don't hate Freddie. He's one of my best friends. I just- I've been frustrated lately, 's all. Honestly, I'd love to see him right now, rubbish song or not. He's good at thinking on his feet, he'd probably know what to do right now."

"Well, why don't we find him then?" John asks, cool and casual, like it's as simple as finding a dozen eggs at the supermarket.

Roger nearly laughs. "Find him? He could be anywhere. He didn't have a stable job when I met him, so who knows where he's ended up? Hell, for all I know, he doesn't even go by Freddie Mercury anymore."

John quirks an eyebrow. "Has he changed his name before?"

"How many people have you met with the name Mercury?" Roger deadpans, but John just shrugs. "He's changed everything about himself at some point, he's a haphazard sort of guy. One week here's wearing leather jackets with slicked-back hair, the next he's grown a mustache and decided he prefers wearing women's shorts with suspenders over a bare chest.  The other day, he felt like going to Milan Fashion Week, so he rented a limousine and hired someone to drive him there with his groupies. How am I supposed to know where he is!"

"Well, given that description, he sounds like the sort of bloke who spends his evenings frequenting gay bars," John mutters into his beer, voice low like he's not sure he wants Roger to hear him.

Roger's not sure why—that's the best idea Roger's heard from Deacy since the bass line to 'Under Pressure'. "Deacy, you're a genius!"

John splutters mid-swallow, and starts to cough. "I was just taking the piss!" he wheezes between his lungs attempts to hack themselves up his windpipe. "Is he really gay?"

Roger can't even bring himself to feel bad for laughing at him. If John had his memories, he'd be laughing too. "I'll let you answer that yourself," he finally says when he gets control of his laughter (and when John stops coughing). "Up for a trip to Heaven after this?"

John draws in a deep breath. "I suppose that's a gay club and not an invitation to simply put myself out of my misery and be done with this?"

"Ding-ding-ding!" Roger beams, throwing a hefty amount of cash on the table as he stands, dragging John up with him. "Come on, Deacy, it'll be a good time!"

"I hope not," John says, which is definitely a euphemism (Roger isn't reading too much into it this time, he swears), and finally Roger is in his element again.

Golf, dentistry, and magic are foreign concepts to him. Clubs, though? Gay or otherwise? Roger can handle those.

As he strides out of the pub, John in tow, he exclaims, "Freddie Mercury, here we come!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm *so* sorry for the long wait. I kept changing my plan for the story, and so it took forever to finish this bit. Now that it's all planned out (and the holidays are over), things should go faster!
> 
> Thanks for the wonderful response so far; I'm honestly overwhelmed. Hope you all liked this chapter!
> 
> Also, in regards to ships: because of my fic's identity crisis, I'm... unsure how this is going to end. My original plan ended with Maylor, and it still could, but it could also end with Joger or no serious endgame at all. I can't decide what I want, so I'm gonna leave it up to you guys! Pretty much, I'm untagging Maylor right now for the sake of everyone looking for Maylor-centric fics, but it could come back depending how things go. Either way, expect some light Joger moments (nothing explicitly romantic) and a tiny bit of Deacury over the coming chapters :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: there's a non-graphic striptease. it's the opposite of sexy, i promise, and it didn't seem to warrant a rating change in my mind. lemme know if you there's a problem!!
> 
> also, as a note: the title of this might change (mostly because i noticed that one of my fave queen fics is also called "keep yourself alive"). expect lyrics from hot space, probably :D

Roger has only been to Heaven once or twice, but it looks exactly as he remembers it. The whole place is crowded and cast in technicolor, countless silhouetted bodies moving to the beat of a poppy disco number—if it weren't gay, it would probably be right up Deacy's alley (at least, the Deacy he remembers). The bar, at least, seems sufficiently quiet for casual conversation, so Roger leads an apprehensive John to a sparse corner lit with cool blue lights and orders them some drinks. So far, so good. John doesn't seem up to talking, but Roger's okay with that. He needs to come up with a game plan, anyway.

It's only after Roger orders a refill that things start to go sideways. The bartender, a young man with dark skin and light eyes, gives Roger a thoughtful look as he slides him his drink. "Is something wrong?" he asks. "You're acting a bit odd today."

"You say that like I've been here before," Roger replies as he receives his drink, and the bartender furrows his brow.

"Roger, you're here every weekend. Are you ill?" It's the first shock of the night, but it certainly won't be the last.

All things considered, Roger's surprised how quickly he recovers. "I'm fine!" he insists with a nervous laugh. "I was just joking, sorry."

Luckily, the bartender doesn't question them further, but the awkwardness is still practically tangible to Roger, who feels like there's a thirty-ton brick of lead pounding in his chest instead of a heart.

As if this isn't awkward enough, John chooses that moment to tap Roger on the shoulder and ask, "Are you gay?" with a shy reluctance that probably means he's scared to offend Roger.

"What? No!" Roger fires back, too uptight to sound convincing even to his own ears. Of all places, a gay club seems like the wrong place for Roger to be defensive of his heterosexuality, and John isn't being malicious anyhow. He forces himself to take a deep breath and adds, more controlled, "at least, I don't think I am."

John, confused, glances at the bartender then back at Roger. "Then why-"

Roger shakes his head. "No idea." It's the truth. Roger can see himself being bi-curious, but even that's generous. The only time he experimented in college, Roger was very drunk and never got further than a makeout session.

But if he wasn't interested in men, why would he frequent gay clubs in this universe? And why doesn't that idea sound quite so ridiculous to him as it likely should?

This is an internal debate for another time, Roger figures as he finishes off his refill. The beers from the pub barely left him tipsy, but he's really starting to feel it now that he's had something heavier. As he waves the bartender over to fill his glass again, he ignores the dizzy sort of buzzing in the back of his head, trying to focus in on his mission.

Freddie. Roger's here for Freddie, not for a sexuality crisis.

The bartender returns his glass filled to the brim, and Roger ducks down to sip the very top so he won't spill (a serious risk, now that he's truly buzzed). "Actually, I do have a question," Roger says to him, peering up into those dark, deep eyes. "Is there a man named Freddie Mercury that frequents this place? Or perhaps a Freddie Bulsara?"

Roger half-expected a look of confusion, but he's not prepared for the bartender to cackle like a madman. "Now I know something's wrong," he declares as he catches his breath, wiping a stray tear from his eye. "You mean Freddie _Fahrenheit?_ He's performing in five minutes, Rog."

Well, that solves one of Roger's problems: if Freddie were a stripper, that's absolutely the sort of name he would pick. However, the bartender is still chortling, and Roger's face must be bright red, because John manages to hold back a playful smirk just long enough to whisper, "are you alright?" into Roger's ear.

Roger gets a grip as fast as he can, nodding at John before flashing the bartender a bashful smile that he doesn't even have to fake. "Right, of course," he mutters, like he's missed something obvious (apparently, he has). "Sorry, it's been long week. Lots of, erm, dentistry."

 _Lots of dentistry,_ he repeats in his head, cringing inwardly. _Roger Taylor, you are a paragon of eloquence._

The bartender looks like he wants an explanation, but Roger's at the end of his rope. "Hey, John," he says instead, "what say we take our drinks over there?" He points to some secluded couches that are no doubt meant for people to talk to prospective dates or partners, which is a good enough cover-up for him. He and John are in a gay bar together. If people assume things, that's their business. Besides, as far as fake-dates go, Roger would far prefer to be with John than most people. At least he's not pretending to be with Paul Prenter.

John mercifully takes the hint. "Sure, let's go," he replies as he stands up, drink in hand.

Roger manages to pull himself together by the time they make it to the sofas. As he slumps down across from John, glass landing on the coffee table with a clatter, then lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding in. "So, we found him."

"No, we found Freddie Fahrenheit," John remarks with an shit-eating grin, "who's a good friend of yours, I suppose?"

"You'd be surprised." Roger's own lips tug upward as he takes another swig of his drink. "The bastard really went with Fahrenheit," he adds, more for himself than John, shaking his head at the absurdity. Now that he's started to think about it, it takes all his willpower not to descend into fits of laughter rivaling the bartender's.

At long last, a universe where they really _do_ call him Mr. Fahrenheit.

John doesn't seem to follow. "How do you know it's him?"

"I'm positive!" Roger chirps. He considers his glass for a moment before deciding to down the rest of his drink. When his glass is empty, he continues. "See, Freddie wrote a song once where- actually, fuck that, I'll keep it simple. Mercury? Fahrenheit? Do you think that's a coincidence?" He tries to deadpan, but instead he lets out an unattractive snort.

"Fair enough," John concedes, still impassive save for that mischievous shine that never quite leaves his eyes. He's always had higher tolerance than Roger, and he's still on first drink since the pub (still beer, of course), so he's far more sober than Roger is. "And you really think he would become a stripper?"

Roger nods, still giggling. "Of course! It's the only logical option!"

"The only logical option," John echoes, like Roger's said something crazy. "And you don't think he would do something with his design degree? Or perhaps become a musician? You did say he was the best singer on the planet."

"No, he's said as much himself." Roger waves a dismissive hand in his direction. "Whenever someone asks what he'd do without Queen, he says he'd become a stripper."

John doesn't look convinced. "And you're sure he wasn't joking."

"I'm certain he was, but I have a theory," he says with a triumphant smile that probably makes him look more inebriated than he actually is. He's itching for another drink, but he doesn't want an interview from the bartender, so he just stares forlornly at his empty glass and tries to convince himself that he ought have his wits about him if he's going to find Freddie.

"Do you?" John drawls, still unimpressed. Roger suspects that somewhere under that stoic mask, John's probably wondering how his life got to this stage. Helping an amnesiac dentist find a male stripper at a gay club probably isn't John's idea of a fun night out, but Roger plans to make it up to him.

He does have a theory, after all—even if he just pulled it out of his arse about a minute ago, somewhere between the time the bartender said 'Freddie Fahrenheit' and the point where John agreed to sit down with him. "See, there's a problem with this universe, beyond the fact that neither of us remember anything," Roger notes, sobering up enough to stop tittering, though his cheeks are still flushed. "I had already decided not to become a dentist before Queen even existed. The classes were awful, and I can't imagine I would've become a dentist, Queen or no. However…." Roger trails off, more for dramatic effect than anything else.

John finally seems to be genuinely interested, eyes wide and drink abandoned on the table between them as he motions for him to keep going. "However?" he prompts, waving him on.

Roger finds Deacy's serious look endearing, and he starts to giggle again, more softly this time. "Is there an echo in here?" he asks facetiously, and when Deacy doesn't respond, he gives him a good-natured sigh and says, "well, whenever someone would ask where I'd be without Queen, I always say I'd be an unhappy dentist leading a very boring life."

"So, rather than placing us in a realistic universe, we've been dropped wherever we said we would go?" John's face is pulled into a confused little pout, and Roger's almost surprised no one else has come up to flirt with him yet. This is a gay club, after all, and John looks very attractive like this, eyes shimmering and trousers tight across his legs.

Roger grins at him. "That's exactly what I'm saying."

"And you pieced this all together while drinking- what is this, your fourth drink tonight?"

"Fifth," Roger corrects, unfazed. The drinks have been spread out over a couple hours, but he supposes that John's point still stands. "Do you follow? Freddie has joked about becoming a stripper if Queen goes sideways, so he's a stripper here. The only reason you're doing exactly what you expected is because you're boring."

John doesn't take the bait. Instead, he hums in thought. "Alright, I suppose that makes sense," he concedes, still looking a bit confused. Whether it's because he doesn't understand Roger's theory or because he doesn't understand how Roger's come up with a solid theory while tipsy remains a mystery, but Roger supposes he should be flattered either way. Either way, he's more intelligent than John was expecting.

"You're right, it does," he crows, feeling particularly cocky. He brings his glass to his lips to take a celebratory drink, but nothing comes.

"Oh, it's empty," Roger says to himself, only half-realizing that he's said that aloud, and John stifles a snort.

"That last drink starting to kick in?"

"Maybe a little," he admits, setting the glass back down on the table.

John looks like he wants to say something else, but a voice interrupts the thrumming dance music over the loudspeakers, announcing none other than the famous (or infamous, as it were) Freddie Fahrenheit.

"Oh! That's our cue!" Roger practically roars, voice coming out far more aggressively than intended. He stands up on wobbly feet, grabbing John's hands to pull him up too. His knees buckle halfway through, though, and he falls forward onto John, face landing on John's well-toned chest with a gentle thud.

Luckily, John brushes it off, muttering a quick, "careful," into Roger's ear before setting them both upright and leading Roger toward the stage. "Alright, I've got one more question for you," he says as they wade across the dance floor.

"Yes?" Roger barely registers the question. The alcohol has well and truly set in, now, and the swathes of people dancing to atrocious dance music under a rainbow of lights are making his head spin.

"Are you sure you want to sit through Freddie's strip tease?" John asks, pulling them through the crowd.

"Nothin' I haven't seen before," Roger shouts back, his own voice resonating in his skull overtop a one-note bassline that he feels more than hears. "'Sides, I've got a plan."

"Is it a good plan?"

"It's a plan!" Barely. If getting Freddie Fahrenheit's attention with a generous tip counts as a plan, then it's a plan. Roger stopped by the bank earlier, and he still has a few hundred pounds to blow on one very lucky stripper. "Just trust me, Deacy! Have I led you astray before?"

They've finally found an open space near the stage, and as John leads them to it, he gives Roger a skeptical look. "In the past fourteen hours I've known you? Yes."

"It could be fun, you know," Roger exclaims as he leans in toward John, meaning to whisper but nearly yelling instead.

"And you're sure you're not gay?"

Roger elbows him in the ribs, trying his damnedest not to smile. "Shut up, you arse."

* * *

As usual, all eyes are on Freddie the second he's onstage, flamboyant and ostentatious as ever. But, unlike his usual performances, Freddie seems clueless as to what he's supposed to be doing. He practically leaps onto stage with all the finesse of an underdeveloped baby bird plummeting from a tree branch, though he looks like anything but a baby in his glittery faux police uniform. Maybe Deacy has a point. Maybe Roger really shouldn't stay for the show.

With a shudder of dread befitting his inebriated state, Roger realizes that Freddie probably doesn't know how to put on a proper strip tease. Hell, Freddie probably doesn't even know what a male strip tease looks like. If John didn't remember anything past age twenty, that probably means that Freddie's stuck in 1971 as well, which probably means his last romantic encounter was with Mary, a few years before he actually came to terms with his sexuality. How should he know the conventions found at a gay club?

John tugs on the sleeve of Roger's jacket. "Is that him?" he whispers, sounding almost in awe. Roger's not quite sure why—Freddie looks anything but awe-inspiring as he thrashes about onstage. Though he's always seemed more than confident in his motions onstage, Freddie knows next to nil about dancing, and his attempts leave the audience silent for a while. Clearly, they're less awed and more bemused, or perhaps they feel betrayed. Roger would too, if he'd been expecting to get off on this.

"Unfortunately, yes," Roger replies, still too tipsy to keep his voice down. God, he's drunk, but he's not drunk enough to watch Freddie struggle with each individual button of his shirt as he sways his hips awkwardly, tie still tight around his neck.

This might actually be the worst thing Roger has ever seen. A drunk giraffe on roller skates would give a better striptease than this.

The audience finally seems to have figured out that Freddie doesn't know what he's doing because they're starting to laugh, and Freddie's started to edge toward the back of the stage, self-conscious. He says something to the audience, but he doesn't have a microphone. This only seems to throw him off further (Freddie really was meant to be a singer, Roger figures, if he's that lost without a mic even in the absence of his memories).

"He looks good," John says, and Roger splutters.

"Are you joking? He's atrocious! You're a better dancer than he is, I've seen you." At least, he's seen some version of John Deacon, and Roger assumes that Deacy probably has the same dance skills here.

"Yes," John concedes, eyes still locked on Freddie's thrashing form, "but he's got this energy about him."

Roger shakes his head. He can't bring himself to look at either of them, so he looks at the floor instead as he mumbles, "and you were accusing me of being gay. Here, if you like him so much, how about you tip him instead?" He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the stash of notes he's got stowed in an envelope. "Here's some money," he says, pushing the envelope into John's hand.

John cards through the envelope, counting the bills inside with increasing suspicion. "Isn't this a bit excessive? I'm not sure if we're even allowed to tip him."

"Not if we're aiming to get his attention," Roger points out. "It might be the only payment he gets tonight, anyway, judging by the audience's reaction. Oh!" He snatches back the envelope from Deacy, who's probably baffled by now, and continues. "Let's add a note on the envelope, so he knows where we want to meet him. Is backstage alright?"

John makes a noncommittal noise as Roger scrawls their meeting place across the front of the envelope, then eyes it with some reluctance as Roger hands it back to him. "Are we pretending to be attracted to him?" he asks.

"You have to pretend?" The question rolls off Roger's lips before he can think to restrain himself, and John gives him a weary look.

"Roger...."

"Deacy," he simpers, mimicking John's precise disappointed lilt.

"Fine, fine," he sighs, rolling his eyes as a good-natured smirk works its way onto his lips. John grips the envelope with shaky fingers as he looks back up at Freddie, and Roger follows his gaze. This proves to be a mistake: the crowd has cleared some, so they have a direct view of Freddie's awful show. The button of his lustrous black trousers has been popped open, but they're still hitched up over his hips, tight as ever. This is going far too slowly. Roger wants it to be over already. Freddie's never been able to dance, but this is pitiful.

"Er, Rog?" John interrupts his thoughts, tapping him on the shoulder.

Roger turns back to him. "Yes?"

John makes a show of standing up on his tiptoes to reach toward the front of the stage, which is a few feet up and far away from where Freddie is gallivanting toward the back. "How exactly do I tip him?" he asks. "I can't exactly hand it to him from down here."

"Just toss it onstage," Roger suggests, miming an overhand throw. "It's not like anyone's gonna steal it from up there. We're in the front now, anyway, since most his audience has cleared off."

For a moment, it seems like John's going to take his advice, drawing his arm back as if to lob the envelope onto the stage. But, suddenly, he lets out a shaky breath, arm slinking back down to his side as he presses the envelope back into Roger's hand. "I don't know if I can do this."

Leave it to John to belt up at the worst possible time. "Oh, fine," Roger groans, taking the envelope _again_. "I'll do it, you big prude."

"I just don't want him to get the wrong idea. I'm married. And straight," John adds as an afterthought, though he doesn't sound too convinced.

Roger's not convinced either. He tosses the envelope onto the stage, turning back to John with a sly grin. "So am I, and yet I'm supposedly here every weekend." He's not as nonchalant about it as he's sure he sounds, but he almost feels like he owes Deacy some sense of familiarity, some assurance that this isn't quite so weird as it seems.

It is, though. It's exactly as weird as it seems. Roger can't quite accept it as reality when Freddie Mercury struts over to pick up the envelope wearing nothing but sequined women's underpants and a loose tie, then throws a flirtatious wink in their direction.

"Did he just wink at me?" Roger asks, pulling up his glasses (god, he's still wearing his reading glasses) to rub at his eyes.

"I thought- never mind," John cuts himself off, but he seems a bit flustered. "Either way, it looks like he's game to meet backstage after all."

Against his better judgment, Roger glances back up at Freddie, only to see something that may just scar him for life.

Covering his face with his hands, Roger lets out a groan. "Oh god, he's stuck the envelope in his thong."

John shrugs. "Well, it's not as if he's got anywhere else to stick it. Between his buttocks, perhaps?"

And with that visual, Roger gives up. Who cares if the barman tries to interrogate him, he definitely needs another drink or three before he's equipped to handle this.

* * *

The security guard poised by the stage seems to be expecting them, so Freddie must have been serious about allowing them to meet him. He leads Roger and John to Freddie's dressing room, then wisely decides to leave them alone to do as they will.

With one final glance at Deacy, Roger knocks on the door.

"Come in!" Freddie calls from within, and Roger slowly opens the door. Roger's not exactly one to get shy, but the sight of Freddie wearing a robe (and likely nothing else), staring and him and John through his vanity mirror, is somehow terrifying.

"What do you want, darlings?" he asks, wiping the makeup off his face.

Roger clears his throat. "Well, we sort of had a proposition." He's about to continue, but Freddie interrupts him in a brisk tone.

"I don't make a habit of sleeping with customers, if that's what you're asking. I'm a stripper, not a prostitute. You'll have to buy me a drink first, like a normal person. I am, however, open to threesomes, if that's your concern."

He sounds far too smooth for someone who just woke up this morning with an eleven-year memory gap, and Roger wonders for a moment whether Freddie isn't simply an entity of this universe. That would definitely put a damper on things.

"We aren't looking to sleep with you," Roger tells him tersely, trying not to think too much about the fact that Freddie is coming on to him (or him and John, he supposes).

Freddie finally looks away from the mirror, puzzled. "What is it, then?"

John speaks up, seeming to draw closer to Freddie involuntarily as he replies, "we were just wondering you had any gaps in your memory."

Gaze going dark, Freddie's mouth pulls into a taut line as he wets his lips. "Why do you ask?"

"Would you believe me if I said we were best friends in another universe?" Roger gives him a hopeful smile, thinking perhaps he'll be able to jog some memories.

Freddie considers Roger for a moment, then decides, "no."

Typical. He should've had John say that instead. He would probably find a way to make that sound plausible.

"Could I prove it to you?" Roger asks, shaking away his thoughts. It's too late to change tactics now. "It's sort of important. We're trapped in an alternate universe where we never met, and we need you to help us find a way back."

Humming in thought, Freddie looks him and John up and down before giving them a nod. "Alright," he finally says, eyes darting between the two of them as he places his washcloth down on the vanity, "but only if I get a kiss from the pretty one."

Roger curses to himself. Why do strangers always call him _pretty?_

As Freddie stands up, John draws even closer to him. "I thought you didn't sleep with customers?"

"I don't, but I said nothing about kissing them," Freddie says, wagging a finger at him. "Come on, here I thought you were serious."

"Oh, fine." Roger rolls his eyes. He supposes it wouldn't be the first time he's kissed Freddie. "C'mere, you prat."

Freddie looks confused for a moment before he starts to laugh. "No, not you!" he exclaims, sounding endlessly amused as he turns to point at John. "You."

Roger's never been more relieved in his life.

John raised a reluctant finger to point at himself. "Me?"

"Yes, you!" Freddie agrees, eyes shining with amusement. "You're gorgeous."

"I am not," John scoffed, like the very idea was offensive. Roger rolls his eyes—John has always thought himself plain, which is a fresh load of bullshit in Roger's opinion.

He's not bothered (or even surprised, really) that Freddie feels the same way. Rather, it's the way Freddie's taken to undressing John with his eyes that makes him uncomfortable. "You are absolutely stunning," he says, breathless.

John, however, seems skeptical. "Aren't you a bit out of my league? I'm too plain for you."

Roger bites back a groan. _There he goes again…._

But Freddie, suddenly the opposite of his dreadful stripper presence, handles the situation with grace. "I knew you were interested!" he cries, and now he and John are nearly nose-to-nose. "Those green eyes have been all over me since I walked out onstage."

With that, John takes a break from gazing into Freddie's eyes to glare at the floor, face flushed. "I have a wife," he explains ruefully, and Roger's grateful he at least remembers that much.

Surprisingly, Freddie only laughs. "So do I, darling."

Roger jerks a hand into the air like an attentive schoolboy who knows the answer to a particularly difficult question. "Mary, right? I know your wife's name is Mary! Now will you believe us?"

"Why would you have a wife, if you're gay?" John asks, which might be the stupidest question Roger's heard all evening. All _three_ of them are married, and that hasn't stopped any of the tension hanging in the air.

Freddie seems to agree. The only response he gives John is a single quirked eyebrow, but he turns to Roger and says, "that doesn't prove a thing, dear. Half the girls in London are named Mary."

"Are half the girls in London named Mary _Austin?"_ Roger growls back, but Freddie ignores him, opting instead to take John's hands in his own, their eyes locking with some unspoken electricity. If this was Freddie's natural reaction to John without any memory of the band, he must have been exercising monumental self-restraint when John had originally joined up with them.

"What's your name, love?" Freddie asks, voice deep and alluring as a rich chocolate cake.

Roger's never seen John swoon before, much less because of a man (much less at _Freddie,_ his head supplies), but here he is, weak-kneed at the flirtations of the world's worst male stripper. Roger feels a flash of some violent emotion come over him, but he can't quite put a name to it. He assumes he must simply be disgusted that Freddie, who usually acts like an older brother figure to John, is flirting so openly with him.

"I'm John Deacon," John near-whispers back, completely dazed. It's like his 'best friend' Veronica doesn't even exist anymore, replaced by the cheap, off-brand version of Freddie Mercury (really? Fahrenheit?). Roger realizes his teeth have started to grit painfully, and he forces his jaw to relax. The room is suddenly stiflingly hot, and Roger pushes a hand under his collar, letting his cold hand sap the fire in his chest.

Deacy and Freddie don't even have their memories, he reminds himself. He can't blame them for acting differently. And, unlike the first time John and Freddie met, Deacy's not some nineteen-year-old _infant_ anymore. He's thirty. He can make his own decisions.

Meanwhile, Freddie's laying the charm on thick and smooth like butter as he continues. "Well, _John_ , I promise I'll make it good."

Roger shouldn't be surprised when John simply quirks a playful eyebrow in Freddie's direction and offers, "you have a mustache," as his final, weak defense. Clearly, he's not so opposed to this as he claims.

"Is that what's keeping you?" Freddie laughs, drawing back to peer over at his dressing table. "I can shave it right now, if you'd like!"

"No, that's not necessary." John raises a hand to stop him. "You just want one kiss?"

"Just the one," Freddie promised, holding up a single finger with his free hand (the other was still entangled with John's). "Only if you want to, of course."

John isn't even trying to hide his smile anymore as he pretends to think things over. "Fine," he decides, leaning in to give Freddie a chaste kiss on the lips.

It lasts just a few seconds, and Freddie doesn't push John in the slightest, but something about it still sets Roger over the edge.

"Great, wonderful!" he barks as they pull away, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Now that you two have had your moment, would you please help us?"

Freddie gives Roger and unimpressed looks, then turns back to John and says, "Love, you should put a leash on that angry chihuahua of yours."

Roger's whole body heats up, either from embarrassment or sheer rage. "Fred, I swear to god-"

"Only joking, darling," Freddie trills back, unruffled. At long last, he steps away from John and nearly wipes that ever-present smug look off his face as he looks at Roger. "Now, you think we've been placed in an alternate universe?"

"Yes."

"And this is because-"

"I remember it," Roger says, voice still strained. Here, Freddie's the picture of serenity while Roger's busy working himself into fits. That can't look good, particularly if Freddie doesn't even know his name. He forces himself to take in a deep breath before he continues. "I think fate's trying to punish me."

"Whatever for? Is it that attitude of yours?" Freddie asks, lip curling upward on one end, mouth carefully closed to conceal his teeth.

It's too close to the truth for Roger to deny it. "I- maybe so. See, we were in this band, and there was this argument-"

"An argument that you insinuated, I presume?"

Roger almost wants to yell back something like "you started it!", or perhaps blame Prenter's slimy little seduction-and-isolation bit, but he can't. Though he hates to admit it, Roger absolutely started it. Freddie wrote a song (Prenter-influenced or no), and Roger decided to throw a tantrum. He's had his requisite thirty-six hours of bitching, and he's ready to give in.

There's no one here to give into here, though, and this Freddie is only driving him up the wall. "Yes," he concedes, "and whenever you get your memories back, I'll owe you an apology. Until then, I see no need to tolerate your being an arsehole."

Freddie looks at him askance. "Someone hasn't read enough. That's not how these stories work. If you were in the wrong, shouldn't you be treating me better?"

"I'm plenty well-read!" Roger fires back. Normally, Freddie would remember that Roger reads fiction regularly, but without any context, he must come off as some angry, dumb blond. "That doesn't mean I have to like the tropes."

"Fair enough," Freddie sniffs, "say I believe you. What's your plan?"

That… is actually a very good question. "I- well, I didn't think that far ahead. I figured you would know what to do."

Freddie tilts his head to the side, looking at Roger like he's just sprouted wings or, say, told him he's from an alternate dimension. "Well, how on earth should I know what to do? I can't even perform a proper striptease; why would I know the inner mechanizations of the universe?"

"Yes," Roger agrees, "but unfortunately, I have no idea where our band's resident astrophysicist would be, and you're our next best choice."

"I wasn't a better choice than the stripper?" John asks, gesturing toward Freddie.

Roger half-expects Freddie to be offended, but he only crosses his arms over his robe and says, "he has a point."

"Freddie, you're the most creative person I know." Roger tries to give Freddie a stern look, but Freddie's too busy snickering at him.

"That's impressive," he sneers, "seeing as you don't even know me."

"I _do,_ though!" Just as Roger was starting to get a handle on that temper of his, he flares up again—Freddie's asking for it, with _that_ face. "I've known you since university! You'd just graduated from Ealing when Tim quit Smile."

Those last words knock the arrogant leer right off of Freddie's face. "Wait a minute," he says, voice heavy. "Tim Staffel?"

"Yes!" Roger shouts, halfway between angry and relieved.

Freddie has finally stopped looking at Roger like he's a madman. He rubs his chin in thought, beginning to pace about. Occasionally, he'll toss Roger or John a curious look. Finally, he says, "I went to Smile concerts all the time back in uni, but you don't look familiar. I suppose this astrophysicist of yours is Brian, then?"

Roger has to restrain himself from pumping his fist in victory. "Yes, Brian May! Do you know where to find him?"

"No," Freddie replies, shaking his head. "You were right about those memory gaps. I feel like it's on the tip of my tongue, but there's nothing there." He pauses his pacing for a moment, brow furrowed in thought, before he pulls back with a groan. "Fuck!"

"That's how I've been feeling all day," John says in a voice that's probably meant to be reassuring, but instead comes off dejected. "I wouldn't have believed him otherwise."

Roger wants to feel affronted, but he wouldn't have believed himself either, given the circumstances.

"Isn't it peculiar?" Freddie muses, going back to his pacing. There's another minute or so of silence as Freddie continues plotting before he finally stops, wagging a decisive finger in the air. "I might have a plan, though I'll need more information from you both," he says, voice low but full of that sort of Freddie-energy that Roger's missed all day. "We can meet tomorrow evening at my house; it's apparently my night off. Unless, that is, you want to spend the night, John."

 _Doesn't sleep with 'customers' my arse,_ Roger thinks, lips pursed like he's eaten something sour. "Tomorrow night should be fine," he says, before things can turn completely unpalatable. "I assume Mary doesn't live with you anymore?"

Freddie nods. "That's right, though she did spend last night on my couch. Apparently she had a row with her new arsehole boyfriend."

Roger cracks a smile at that. "She does have poor taste in men, doesn't she?"

"Fuck you, Roger Taylor," Freddie retorts, but he's started to smile. It must be the millionth time Roger's heard Freddie say that to him, but for some reason, it sends an uncomfortable shiver down his spine this time. Something about that familiarity seems uncomfortable.

He shakes that off, though, barking out a laugh. "Thought you wanted Deacy to do that."

Freddie cocks an eyebrow. "Jealous?"

"Piss off!"

Roger only figures out long after he's left the dressing room, after he's slumped down into the driver's seat of his Alfa Romeo and revved the engine, exactly why Freddie's teasing has thrown him off.

How did he know Roger's full name?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... and it didn't even take a month this time lol
> 
> I think I'm gonna try to post on weekends, hopefully every one-to-two weeks. However, the world-building does get a bit more intense from here on out, so there might be some longer pauses while I figure out the specifics. Don't expect anything as long as the break between the first two chapters though ;)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!! Thanks for all the kudos, comments, etc so far!


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